Her Second Chance Hometown Groom

by Amelia C. Adams

  “Thanks, Mom.” He walked over to the cupboard and grabbed a mug, his movements seeming slow and deliberate. Angela thought it likely that he was putting off this conversation, not wanting to have it any more than she did. Finally, he turned, mug in hand, and leaned against the counter.

  “You must have caught the flight right after mine,” he said.

  “Actually, I was on the same flight. But you were in first class and didn’t see me.”

  “Hmm.” He took a sip of cocoa, then set the mug on the counter. “I’m a little confused, Angela. I thought you wanted me out of your life. I got the distinct impression there was fire and brimstone involved.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too until I got called into the office. My boss was really angry with me about how our interview went . . . or didn’t go.”

  “Sorry about that.” He didn’t sound sorry, though.

  “The thing is . . .” Angela stared down into her cocoa. The top layer was white and creamy, and floating just below that was the darker mixture of chocolate. She picked up her spoon and stirred, blending the colors together so they wouldn’t be so fragmented. “He told me that I should use our past relationship to get a story out of you. He’s expecting me to bring back an exclusive look into the life of Austin Mayhew.”

  He studied her, but she couldn’t read his expression at all. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t want to do it. But he said he’d put my name in for the job I want, and that if I didn’t do it, I’d get fired.”

  “Hmmm.” That seemed to be his favorite response that day. “So, that’s why you’re here? To get a story out of me?”

  He made it sound so awful—it pretty much was. “I’m here to ask you for an interview, but I’m doing it on the up-and-up. I’m not going to pretend this is anything but an assignment for my job—that would be lying to both of us.”

  “For someone who wants to be on the up-and-up, it’s odd that we were on the same plane.”

  “No, not really. There were a limited number of flights today.” She’d meant to present her case so much more convincingly, more eloquently, but now, sitting in this kitchen and drinking hot chocolate, she felt her resolve melt away, and it was hard to find the words that would keep her sounding professional. She’d spent a lot of time in this room over the years playing board games and eating pizza, and it was difficult to wrap her head around all the things that had changed.

  He picked up his mug and drained it, then put it in the sink and rinsed it. Another delay tactic while he thought about what to say. None of the Mayhew men rushed into conversations—they thought everything through, almost to the point of driving everyone around them crazy. When he turned back to her, his eyes were cloudy and troubled.

  “So, you want me to give you this exclusive interview . . . in exchange for what? I’m only seeing you benefitting from this deal.”

  “You don’t think it would be great publicity for you?”

  “Yes, but I already have a job. It’s not like I have anything to lose by turning you down. What’s in it for me?”

  She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask because she really didn’t have anything meaningful to offer. “Helping out an old friend. Isn’t that enough incentive for you? Or has being a Rebel changed you?”

  He pressed his lips into a thin line, and she could see the muscles working in his jaw. “I’m not the one who’s changed, Angela Dingle . . . er, whatever your last name is now. I grew up wearing ratty overalls and drinking Quik strawberry milk and climbing trees, and I don’t have a problem talking about it to anyone who’ll ask. You, on the other hand—you’re ashamed of where you came from, and that breaks my heart.”

  It was odd to hear that expression coming from a grown man and not a Southern lady, but she knew he meant it. His sincerity was obvious. “It’s not that I’m ashamed, Austin. It’s just . . . people won’t take me seriously if they know where I’m from.”

  He shook his head. “That’s crazy talk. You know why your boss wants this interview with me so badly? It’s because I come from Frogwater. Haven’t you heard—I’m something of a big deal. Everyone thinks it’s great that I grew up as simply as I did, and they want to know more. Why is it so different for you?”

  “Because I’m a professional! I’m supposed to get up in front of a camera and present myself well.”

  He pressed his lips together. “Aren’t I a professional? Don’t I work in front of a camera and try to present myself well? I ask you again, why is it so different for you? Is it because you don’t roll around in the mud?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” she faltered. She was messing this up so horribly—she knew she shouldn’t have come.

  “Maybe because I used to catch frogs, you’re just so accustomed to seeing me in the mud that it’s not even an issue anymore.” He waved a hand at her. “Oh, I forgot—you used to help me. Hmm. Maybe it’s good that you hide your real name—it would be too much to bear if anyone knew you actually caught frogs once upon a time.”

  She had to say something about that. “You know what? Yes, it would hurt my career. This network is looking for bright, polished professionals, and I have to work twice as hard to get myself noticed. Catching frogs? That would be the kiss of death.”

  “I think it would be a great human interest piece. You interview me, I hand you a frog . . .” A long smile curved Austin’s mouth. “In fact, let’s make this a real thing.”

  “What . . . what are you talking about?” Fear coiled in her stomach.

  “I’ll do the interview if you’ll go frog catching with me. Double points if the frog catching is part of my interview—I think your viewers would love to see you holding a nice little toad.”

  Angela shook her head. “No. I just . . . I can’t do that. I’ll take pictures of you in the muck and grime with all the frogs you want, but I can’t go out there with you. It’s just not possible.”

  “Then no interview.” He crossed his arms across his chest in the attitude she recognized as, “This discussion is over.” There was no budging him once those arms were crossed.

  What was she supposed to do now? She could give up on her dream of hosting the morning show—that might actually be easier than tromping around in the mud. Or . . . or she could keep swallowing her pride . . .

  “I feel really bad about the way we left things the other night,” she said after a long moment. “Yes, we have a lot of baggage, but I should have been able to put that aside. If I’d been more easygoing, I wouldn’t be in this mess now. I can see how my mistake brought us to this point.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a courageous thing to say. It doesn’t get you off the hook, but it’s courageous.”

  “Oh, come on, Austin!” She slapped her hand on the counter. “I’m really trying! Can’t I just . . . I don’t know. Bat my eyelashes at you or burst into tears or something?”

  “Frog hunting. With me. And because it’s winter, that might be a little tricky . . . which means you’ll need to be even more dedicated. But it will be good for you.” He nodded toward her hands. “How much did that manicure cost?”

  She looked down and mumbled.

  “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  She lifted her chin. “A hundred dollars when I added the tip.” She didn’t know why she’d mumbled the first time—that was a pretty standard charge at most decent salons.

  He let out a low whistle. “That’s not cheap.”

  “So, you don’t spend extra money on anything nice now that you’re a famous football player?”

  He scratched his chin. “No, not really . . . Well, I did buy a pretty big TV for my apartment, but it turns out that between practices and stuff, I’m not home very often to watch it.”

  “I have to keep my hands looking nice for the camera. It’s a business expense.” She wasn’t about to tell him how much she spent on tooth whitening.

  “I tell you what. You come frog hunting with me, and I’ll pay for a new ma
nicure afterwards.”

  “That’s a very nice offer, but how do you plan to reimburse me for my loss of dignity and my humiliation?”

  “You’re only humiliated if you choose to be, Angela. No one can make you feel that way if you don’t let them.”

  She smiled. “Are you channeling your inner Eleanor Roosevelt now?”

  “She always was my favorite first lady. She would have made a great football player, don’t you think? She had so much tenacity.”

  “You have a favorite first lady?”

  He grinned. “Not really. I just like messing with your head.”

  “Well, stop it. We have some serious things to talk about.” That smile of his messed with her head plenty. She pulled in a breath. “If I come frog hunting with you, will you grant me the interview?”

  “Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “That was my only stipulation, and if you meet it, I’ll hold up my end of the deal.”

  She turned and glanced out the window. “It’s starting to snow. How are we supposed to go frog hunting in the snow?”

  He crossed over to the window and looked up at the sky. “The clouds are socked in pretty solid, too. All right, this is what we’ll do. We’ll go looking and see if we can find any in hibernation. If we can’t, you can at least take pictures of some of the places where we’ve gone in the past.”

  That sounded simple enough, and she thought she was off the hook, but then he continued. “And then next spring, we’ll come back after the frogs have woken up, and we’ll do it right.”

  “But . . . but maybe the viewers won’t be interested anymore come spring,” she hedged.

  “Oh, that won’t be for your audience. That’ll just be to hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “Austin Mayhew . . .”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “A deal’s a deal—no room for appeal. How badly do you want this interview?”

  She sighed. “Badly.”

  He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  She thought about it. “What if we go out now and we end up going out again in the spring? Will you pay for my manicure twice?”

  “Only if you ruin it twice.”

  She wanted to argue, but that was actually pretty fair, so she held her tongue. “Fine,” she said at last. “You have yourself a bargain.”

  “Great! So, how are we going to make this work? I mean, this is for the television audience, right? But I don’t see your cameraman with you.”

  She patted her bag. “I’ve been sent with a simple video camera, and I can also record your voice, which we can play over still shots.”

  “Well, now. That’s a whole lotta technology in one little purse.”

  “It gets the job done.”

  He pulled out his phone and punched a few buttons. “The weather app says it looks like the snow is going to continue all night, but we’ll have sunshine again by morning. Hope you brought your snow boots.”

  “They’re back at my parents’ house, easy to grab.”

  “Good. That’ll make things easier.”

  Melinda entered the kitchen then, carrying a basket of matched socks. “Can you stay for dinner, Angela? I was just about to put the finishing touches on it.”

  “Thanks for asking, but I promised my mom we’d eat together tonight,” Angela replied.

  “I’ll plan on another time, then. I assume you’ll be here for a few days.”

  “Yes, I will, and that would be great. I’ve missed the Mayhew family dinners.”

  “They’re just as rambunctious as they ever were. The boys have gotten older, but that doesn’t make them quieter.”

  Angela laughed. “I’ll look forward to it. What time should I be here tomorrow, Austin?”

  “Let’s say eleven,” he replied.

  “I’ll be here. And then you’re giving me that interview.”

  “I told you—I’d hold up my end of the bargain if you hold up yours.”

  She stuck out her hand, and he shook it. “Deal,” they both said at the same time.

  Chapter 5

  Showing up at the Mayhews’ and asking Austin for an interview had been difficult, but having dinner with her mom might prove to be even more difficult. Angela wiped her feet carefully before going inside the house, hung the truck keys on the hook by the door, and put her coat in the front closet before she even called out to let her mother know she was back.

  Elaine Dingle was in the kitchen tossing a green salad when Angela came in. She didn’t look up as she spoke. “How are the Mayhews?”

  “They all seem to be doing well.”

  “Even Todd?”

  “I didn’t actually see Todd.” Angela paused. “Is something wrong? Why Todd specifically?”

  “He had an incident with his heart not too long ago.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.” Angela reached into the cupboard and began to take down the plates she’d need to set the table. She hated to see anything bad happen to Todd—he’d always been so kind to her. “Austin agreed to the interview.”

  “Well, considering that’s the only reason you’re here, that’s good.”

  Angela swallowed. She was going to stay calm—that was the promise she’d made to herself on the flight. “Yes, I’m pretty relieved,” she answered, forcing her voice to sound light.

  Elaine set the salad on the table, then turned to get a pitcher of raspberry lemonade out of the fridge. Angela was surprised to see it—that had been her favorite drink in high school. She wondered if her mom remembered that or if it was a coincidence.

  Once the lasagna and breadsticks had also been brought over and the silverware was in place, they sat down in the same spots they’d taken Angela’s entire life—her mom in the chair nearest the fridge so she could get up to fetch whatever had been forgotten, and Angela in the chair under the window. Her father’s chair at the head of the table was a silent reminder that he was no longer there.

  “Hand me your plate.”

  Angela obeyed, and her mother cut her a wide piece of lasagna and put two breadsticks next to it. She was about to protest—if she ate like that every day, she wouldn’t even fit in her work clothes—but she knew her mother was trying to show some hospitality, and it would be foolish of her to push it away. “It smells delicious,” she said instead.

  “Your grandmother’s recipe. The one I always use.”

  “And it always smells delicious. Thank you.” Angela accepted her plate and set it on the table, then filled both their glasses. The levels of awkwardness in the room were so high, it was worse than a blind date.

  They ate for a few minutes, neither trying to make conversation, and then Elaine put her fork down. Angela looked up, surprised. “Is something wrong, Mom?”

  “No, nothing.” She paused, tracing the pattern of the tablecloth with the tip of her finger. “I was just wondering if you would have come back if it wasn’t for this interview.”

  “Of course I would. I . . . just don’t know when.”

  “You haven’t been here since your father’s funeral.”

  “I know, and I’m not proud of that. It’s just been . . .”

  “You’ve been busy.” Her mother’s tone was flat, uncaring. Would it have made a difference if Angela had been home more? She didn’t think so . . . so why was her mother even bringing it up?

  Angela put her fork down too. She didn’t know if she was ready for this conversation. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. She was probably being a chicken, but she’d take the easy way out and tell her mother just part of the truth. Maybe that would be enough for now. “I have been busy. This job is super competitive—being a female sports reporter is tough, and I have to be twice as good as the men before they’ll even take me seriously.”

  “I didn’t think you wanted to be a sports reporter.”

  “I don’t, but it’s getting my foot in the door. If I take the assignments I’m given and do a good job with them, they’ll trust me with the bigger assignments down the road.
”

  “Your father was worried about you, you know.” Elaine picked up her fork and poked at her food. “He never was the same after you left.”

  And there it was—the thing Angela had been dreading the most. Could this week get any worse? Why was she having to come face-to-face with all these demons at once? Couldn’t they come one at a time, maybe?

  “I know he wasn’t, Mom, but Dr. Brown said his heart had been bad for a long time,” she replied, again keeping her tone as gentle as she could. She could sense that her mother was gearing up for a fight, and she wasn’t going to participate. She couldn’t—not ever again. Her father wasn’t there to referee anymore, so she’d have to be her own advocate.

  “Well, it’s neither here nor there. What’s done is done.” Elaine took another bite and kept her eyes trained on the table.

  Angela ate too, but she had stopped tasting the food. Her mother would never be convinced that Angela hadn’t caused her father’s death. No amount of arguing, no bringing up the coroner’s report, no amount of pleading would get her mother to see reason, and so Angela had stopped trying. “You can’t reason with a riled-up rattler,” her father used to say, and that was definitely true in this case.

  After finishing her meal, Angela cleared the table and scraped the dishes, falling back into her old chores almost instinctively. Once the dishwasher was running, Elaine settled in with her knitting in front of the TV, and Angela disappeared into her old room. She felt like she was suffocating, like she had wrapped a wool blanket around her head before entering the house. If it wouldn’t make things even worse between her and her mother, she’d get a hotel room instead. It would be worth the money.

  After checking to make sure the TV volume was up high enough to mask any sounds, Angela closed her bedroom door tightly and sat on the far side of the bed, then called Becca on her cell phone. She needed someone to talk to, someone who was on her side.